


hear you scream

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: CHEATERS WE LOVE YOU!, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Halloween Costumes, Jealousy, Semi-Public Sex, me not being a crackhead in the tags? groundbreaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: As a favor, Bellamy helps Clarke win Best Couple's Costume at their annual Halloween Party. Except, he, kind of, accidentally on purpose, deliberately forgets to remember she wants to win it with Finn. Her boyfriend.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 49
Kudos: 291





	hear you scream

**Author's Note:**

> this isnt the best thing ive ever written but im not gonna keep it locked up in a vault like jason has done with our rightful bellarke kiss and overall cure to our mental health problems
> 
> happy halloween. thanks to none of my friends from stopping me from uploading this. 
> 
> title is from kim petras' spooky banger album.

Bellamy would do anything for Clarke, and she knows it. It’s the whole reason he even agrees to the stupid thing. 

Six years ago, Clarke started working at the same museum he’d been working at since right after he left high school. He worked his way up, first as a janitor, bummed around at the gift shop for a few months, then a receptionist for a couple years, and eventually their director Jaha took a chance on him and let him take a swing at being one of the educators despite his lack of formal education. After a bit of a rough start with the two of them — Clarke with her big Ivy League diploma, and her bottomless trust fund, wasting away at a medium sized town museum as a graphic designer, it seemed fishy, okay? — they quickly became friends trauma-bonding over the two week deadline their director gave them for an entirely new exhibit (lots of all-nighters and bad take-out), and then later best friends (plenty more of bad take-out), and then after that these kind of weird, psychically linked, co-dependent freaks that also happened to work together. 

It didn’t help that he was pathetically, hopelessly, disgustingly in love with her either. 

“As your best friend, I’m asking you for a favor,” Clarke tells him, a conclusion to a very long work-related sob-story that somehow still involved her jobless douchebag boyfriend, which is how it all starts. 

From the moment she mentions Finn, Bellamy already doesn’t want to do it, keeping his gaze fixed straight on his computer. She’d cornered him in his office, where he was going over the planned tour schedule for the day. “You’re creative,” he insists, with a little shrug. 

“With pen and paper, yes. You know I never work with fabrics.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see the pout starting to form on her mouth, which is exactly why he is having a staring match with an Excel file. “Besides, where would I get the time?” She leans back against the edge of his desk, standing close enough for him to be able to smell her expensive flowery perfume and laundry detergent. Close enough to see the smooth, rosey skin peeking from under the slit in her tight pencil skirt. Close enough to see her even tighter white-knuckled grip, imaging it in an entirely different context. Ripping her skirt as he pushes it up, sliding his fingers into her from behind, pressing his mouth to the base of her pretty neck. His knee jerks up into the table. _Fuck_. Luckily, Clarke’s too busy with her pity party to notice, still in the middle of her tangent, “Josie sabotaged my entire project, forcing me to start from scratch. The deadline is November first.”

Clarke was taking the lead on an online art festival organized by the museum, allowing newer artists a broader platform to share their work. It’s was her idea, a passion project years in the making, although Jaha — proud 5G technology conspiracy theorist — remained wildly skeptical that art could be consumed and appreciated fully through a ‘digital eye’, whatever that meant. She had something to prove, which was exactly the kind of environment she thrived in. He’d barely seen her these past few weeks. And now, apparently Josie has dumped her pumpkin spice latte right down Clarke’s harddrive. On purpose.

Bellamy focuses on quietly breathing through his sudden arousal, jaw tightened as he clicks open his email, just to have something to do. He needs to get laid, before she starts to catch onto the fact she could be talking about fucking candy corn or Photoshop settings and he could get hard just watching her lips move. It’s disgusting. She’s his best friend. She would kill him, if she knew. By an act of God, he manages to keep his voice neutral, “What did you even tell her?”

“Nothing!” Clarke immediately exclaims, crossing her arms over her chest. Apparently his neutral sounded more like irritation, probably because of the flared nostrils and deathgrip on his mouse which are both completely unrelated to Josie, and she’s taken offense. “She was over at my desk flirting with Murphy, and I interrupted to ask her about setting up a meeting with an artist and she flipped. Apparently,” she emphasizes while air-quoting, dryly, “It’s not ‘her job’.”

Her voice gets all hoarse and husky when annoyed, and he just knows that if he looked at her right now her skin would be all splotchy red from exertion, and her generous chest would be heaving from being so fired up, and that would all go straight to his head. The wrong head. The one he’s not supposed to be thinking with when it comes to Clarke. 

He doesn’t know what’s up with him lately, but he’s going to need some distance. Fast. His skin is starting to prickle with unwanted need, and he has a 65+ tour in five minutes, and not even the mention of guaranteed boner killer Psycho Josie has him cooling down his thoughts. He sags back in his chair, finally looking at her so he can get it over with, rubbing his palms over his thighs. “Look, Clarke,” he huffs, as if aggravated and not just creepily thinking about bending her over his desk, or maybe even his knee. “I just don’t want to do it.”

“They’re doing slutty female Hugh Hefner and one of his Playboy bunnies, and Gabriel’s just going to be wearing a pair of pink-fur lined boxers and rabbit ears. You’ve _seen_ Gabriel — ” Their curator, and the guy Josie picked to be her fiancé, and yeah, really sexy. But not _more_ sexy than Clarke, he thinks, although he’s completely biased. She turns the fucking pleading eyes on him, and he thinks he’s starting to sweat, he feels like he’s sweating. “I need all the help I can get.”

“Please, Bellamy,” she pleads, which is not helping him take his mind off of _things_ at all, grasping his shoulder with her tiny, warm fingers. “I know you don’t like Finn but I just want to look hot and beat Josie.” 

Finn is the entire reason Bellamy doesn’t want to do it in the first place. He doesn’t want to help her win a Couple’s Costume contest with that fucking asshole, because he can’t stand the thought of them being a couple. He can’t stand the thought of him touching her, kissing her, making her laugh or yeah, even fucking her. 

Which he is well aware is completely delusional. He doesn’t have the right to be jealous, or feel betrayed, or even possessive. Bellamy is just her best friend, and she’s never given him even the slightest inclination she sees him in any different way. Not helping her win this contest won’t help stop his humongous crush, or the wet dreams terrorizing him every morning, or stop her from being with someone else. It won’t make her love him back.

If anything, Bellamy does really hate Josie. She’s their receptionist, but she never answers any calls or emails or post-it notes or faxes or even just regular verbal face-to-face questions if she’s not in the mood to talk, and she is always late, and never not on her personal phone. One time she was bored and so she pulled the fire-alarm in their storage room, effectively water-damaging his favorite Renaissance painting beyond saving. Her daddy easily footed the half a million dollar bill, which begs Bellamy to wonder why she’s even working with them to start with. 

Probably Gabriel, if he had to guess. Too worried he might take the chance to run out on her if he’s not under her 24/7 surveillance.

So yes, he does want to stick it to Josie. It’s a good, platonic reason to want to help Clarke, one that isn’t solely because she asked, or because she’s turning her big, bright blue eyes on him and those pouty pink lips he wants nothing more but to kiss. 

He thinks the sex things are just weird manifestations, that are trying to convince his own body it’s just something as primal and normal as lust, that maybe he’s not poisoned, sick. Some sort of survival mode. Like his deepest, truly most fucked up desires don’t even have anything to do with sex. Like he doesn’t want to hold her hand, and fall asleep with her in his arms, and wake up with her in his arms, and buy a house with an art-studio and at least four bedrooms with her so they have enough room for all their children, let her pick a dog for them at the shelter, and spend his entire life trying to perfect cooking her favorite dish just right, and a long, long time from now be buried in the same grave as her. He’s in that deep. 

“Fine,” he mumbles, just a dark rumble, reaching up to rub a hand over his tired eyes. He’ll fucking do it, if it makes her so goddamn happy. He’s still pissed though. At Finn. And himself. And probably Jaha, too. If it wasn’t for Jaha’s stupid ‘no storebought costumes’ rule, he wouldn’t even be in this situation right now. 

Clarke turns, so her hip is against the edge of the desk instead, arms crossed over her chest. And _yeah_ , her collarbone _is_ flushed a pretty pink. She arches an eyebrow at him, his gaze stuck on the little birthmark just above it. “Really?”

He purses his lips as he drops his hand back into his lap, considers letting her squirm for another moment before realizing that’ll just end up hurting him, not her. “Really.”

She bends down to throw her arms around her neck, and it’s a hug, and hugging is what they do. Her breasts crushed against his chest, her pretty blonde hair tickling his nose, his arms tight around her waist as he weirdly feels the calmest he’s felt all day. And later, Bellamy is going to download Tinder, and he’s going to match with at least a dozen girls, and maybe even some guys, and he’s going to convince himself that this is it. He’s really going to move on this time, and then he’ll end up ghosting every single one before they can even go on their first date, a badly disguised one night stand, because at this point he’s so repugnantly infected, he can’t even get hard if he’s not thinking about Clarke. 

“You’re the best,” she says, absolutely beaming as she presses her warm lips to his cheek. 

A pang of disgust flashes through his body, settling in the pit of his stomach. If she only knew. 

⸸

Agreeing to help her out doesn’t mean he stops being petty. That’s just how he copes with losing Clarke to a discount boyband member with weird metal origami hobbies at this point. First there was the ‘getting under to get over’ coping mechanism, which backfired every time he found himself subconsciously only going for blonde, blued-eyed girls. Then he changed up that particular tactic, fucking about anything that looked the exact opposite of Clarke. But, then he would just feel sick in the morning, so naturally, he ended up turning to drinking. When that got borderline alcoholic, he considered smoking, or suddenly getting invested into way too expensive cars that his dick is not small enough for to justify getting in the first place, or maybe, if he felt particularly masochist, trying to make amends with his sister for the hundredth time. Nothing like being this number is no longer in service’ed via text by your own flesh and blood to shock your system out of a bad habit. All in all, he thinks being petty is a fairly healthy technique compared to rest.

Technically, she didn’t even tell him what the costumes should be. That’s so like Clarke. She’ll come up with an idea, hard-set on making it happen, and then expects someone else to work out the details. It’s ‘cause she’s an entitled, privileged brat, and it used to annoy him to no end, but now he finds it actually kind of endearing, in a strange way. 

“It’s because you’re a simp,” Miller told him from across the room after she bullied him into organizing last year's charity run with (for) her in under five minutes, tossing a scrunched up ball of paper at Bellamy’s face. 

So he takes his artistic freedom, and runs with it. 

“Cersei and Jamie?” He offers her later that same day, in the backroom, shoving a package of homemade veggie snacks into her near empty lunchbox. If it was up to her, the girl would only eat junkfood. That is if she doesn’t forget to bring lunch all together. 

“What about incest sounds sexy to you?” Clarke retorts, before she bites off the end of a carrot stick. He sees a flash of it just before, the corner of her lips is turned up in an amusement, which makes him want to keep trying. Try and get that reaction from her. Show her he’s so much funnier than her fucking troglodyte Reddit using boyfriend could ever be. 

“Shrek and human Fiona,” Bellamy suggests next, holding out his palm to an empty seat by the window so she can take it. He takes one of the overhead bars, smirking down at her. 

“Thanks,” she says, sliding onto the bench with her purse in her lap. The tram protests with a hiss at it starts to take off. “You can’t be serious.”

“Not a fan?”

“Not convinced you can make Shrek sexy.”

“Finn couldn’t, no.”

A little voice inside his head waits for her to say something ambigious like 'no, _he_ wouldn't', or give him a loaded look, but that little voice is stupid, and useless, and the very reason why he lets it drop.

They’re sitting on the high-value couch her mother bought her as an overcompensatory Christmas gift to make up for years of emotional neglect, just finished gorging down a large pizza between the two of them. He takes a swig of his beer. “Beauty and the Beast?”

She yanks the bottle from his hand, giving him a glare this time around as she steals a sip. There’s just the silent treatment, that cute little annoyed dip above her brow. 

His grin widens. “TacoBelle then?”

Clarke swats him in his very full stomach, hard, making him jolt up into an upright position as a wave of nausea washes over him. Her laugh still echoes through the room even as she smooth-talks him into watching some boring medical drama instead of the documentary he had queued up. 

The next day, he ducks around the door of her office. Clarke has her phone pressed in between her ear and shoulder, on hold, clicking around on her computer as she waits.

“What if we dress you up as genderswapped Aladin, and he can be the magic carpet like the doormat he is?” She flips him off, and he chuckles, loudly, eyebrows shooting up. “Sexy Edwina Scissorhands and her topiary bush?”

There’s a loud crash against the door after he closes it, making him grin with satisfaction all the way through the rest of the workday. He loves pushing her buttons, getting her riled up.

“Hey,” Bellamy starts, the following Saturday. Halloween is creeping closer and closer, and he hasn’t even started on one of the two costumes. He’s not planning on putting much effort in Finn’s anyway. They’re in his small rectangular stretch of backyard, spread out on the grass, playing with his neighbour’s dog. 

Apparently she can already tell what subject he’s about to breach, hand raised over her brow to shade her narrowed eyes from the sun as she looks up at him. Picasso buds his nose into her hand, probably wondering why she’s suddenly holding the bright yellow tennis ball in a death grip. 

“What about Cleopatra and Caesar?” His most serious suggestion to date, which shows, from the way her face softens, using her free hand to absently pet the golden retriever’s head. He gives her another second, and himself to imagine her as the Queen of the Nile, then, “Except he’s just a bowl of sad, wilted salad.”

It’s hot out, and she’s just in a thin sundress. She tosses the ball away into the distance, her nostrils flaring slightly before she turns her glare back on him. “You better be fucking with me.”

He picks up one hand from behind him, leaning over to thumb away a blade of grass stuck to her chin. She eyes him warily, sunlight catching on her messy braid, and his voice comes out a bit rougher than intended. “You know I don’t joke about history, princess.” The dog finally comes cantering back, wrestling Bellamy to the ground. 

He’s groaning as he tries to duck the slobbery ball Picasso is trying to press against his cheek. Clarke sounds smug. “Serves you right.”

He drags Clarke to the pool. Only once during their six years of friendship has he been able to convince her to accompany him to the gym, and while there she refused to try anything but the treadmill. Not to run, or even to try a mild jog, but to scroll through her Instagram while sauntering. He cares about Clarke’s overall health, but his inner Scrooge — the byproduct of a childhood on food stamps — couldn’t bear having her pay for a gym membership when all she did was walk. You can do that outside, for free. 

Clarke likes swimming though, so now instead of doing a third day of weights, Bellamy joins her to do laps at their local pool every Wednesday. She doesn’t like getting up early though, so every time they go near the end of the morning, when the senior discount seems to be the biggest. This time he has to bully her into it, telling her taking a thirty minute break won't ruin some prep school teenager's future art career. 

“I got it,” Bellamy pants, catching up with her after one of her false starts. She always wants to race, but she never wants to play fair. When he calls her out on it, she accuses him of being a sore loser, so he’s just stopped doing it. “Princess Leia and Jabba the Hutt?”

She dunks him without warning, making one of the old ladies glare their way when a splash of collateral damage threatens to get her hair wet. Clarke’s red one piece is the only thing he can make out under the water, and he pinches her ribs so she ducks away, allowing him to come up for air.

He wipes the water from his eyes, pushing back his fringe of wet curls once he’s done choking. “Oh, you’ve done it now,” he says, conspiratorially. “You pissed off Vera.”

Clarke grabs a hold of the rope lane line, kicking her feet to stay above water, a slow, almost evil smirking forming it’s way across her bare face. “Don’t worry. I can take her and her brittle bones.”

“I don’t doubt you can,” he agrees, moving to flatten his back against the wall so one of the grandpas entering the pools from the stairs can get out of the fast line. They’re usually the only two in there. “But will you be able to face her son at Sunday family dinner ever again?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, cutely. “Probably.”

Purposely shaking out his hair at her, sending water drops everywhere, he gets the reaction out of her he wanted. She squeals, and then she splashes him and he’s chasing after her to the end of the basin.

Bellamy’s watching some reality show about exes, if only to enjoy some mindless schadenfreude, when he scrapes his throat. Clarke is on the other end of the couch, socked toes pressing into the side of his thigh. They usually come to this place, she calls it more ‘homey’. He thinks it’s because of the dog. She turns the page of her sketchbook. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I have a really good one this time, promise.”

She eyes him suspiciously, a smudge of charcoal on her jaw. 

“Willa Wonka and the little brat girl after she eats the blueberries?”

“I regret ever asking you for help.”

"Come on. Finn would look adorable with pigtails."

Later, she’s abandoned her drawing, her cheek pressed against his shoulder and eyes glued to the tv. She pretends to hate everything he picks, but can never resist a good cautionary tale. He pauses running his fingers idly through her hair. “Wednesday and Neef Itt?”

She claws at his thigh, nails biting into his skin through the fabric of his jeans. His knee jerks, convincing himself it was only because it was a sudden, unexpected move. He didn’t have time to mentally prepare having her hand so close to his dick. 

“Final suggestion,” he calls out at her from the kitchen, waiting for the popcorn to finish. He pops his head around the corner. “Slutty lamp and a moth?” 

He’s kind of proud of that one, the underlying dig being that Finn’s an insect making him feel all sorts of warm inside. Bellamy could show up as pest control. It could be funny. Maybe not super sexy, but that’s just Clarke’s personal preference. Not a requirement for winning Best Couple’s Costume, just for outdoing Josie. Which, again, Gabriel is _really_ fucking hot. Finn — he's nothing without his hair. Take that away, and he looks like every other guy working at Best Buy. 

This time, she sounds less amused. “Bellamy,” she whines, frustrated, just slightly muffled by the wall separating them. Which fades, after he dumps the popcorn in a bowl and makes his way back to her. “The party is a week from now. Seven days. That’s a 168 hours.”

He decides to finally give in, seeing the tightness in her shoulders, knowing she’s counted the fucking hours. She’s stressed. Knowing her, she probably already told Josie she’s going to obliterate her. If he thinks about it, it’s kind of flattering she has that much faith in him to start with. “Don’t worry, you’re going to take this home.”

And then Bellamy thinks about her taking the 25 dollar gift certificate to Barnes and Nobles home along with her stupid boyfriend, to her outrageously expensive but extremely uncomfortable couch and empty except for a bottle of wine fridge because she never remembers to buy any groceries, and he has to take a sharp inhale, breathing through the stabbing pain in the middle of his chest. 

She grabs the bowl from him, immediately settling back at his side when he sits down beside her. From this angle, he’s looking directly down at her pouty lips, the way her brow’s puckered. “I need to win _Couple’s_ Costume, Bell.” She grabs a handful of popcorn. “How can I do that when you’re obviously trying to sabotage Finn? I know you don’t like him, but he’s—”

The last thing he wants to do is talk about fucking Finn. Hear why he’s so great, why he makes her heart pound and her head spin, why it’s him in her bed every night and not Bellamy. So he cuts her off, through gritted teeth, because he’s holding on by a thin, thin thread. “Do you trust me?”

Her answer is immediate. “Of course I do.” Immediate, and with a jab at his side for doubting her.

Bellamy can’t help himself when he presses a kiss to the top of her head, which is more to calm his racing heart than give her any comfort. Promising, “I’ll make sure you win, okay?”

(And really, Clarke knows him. She knows he never said who she would win it with. It’s what he’ll tell himself to justify it, once he’s probably working through the night to finish her costume in time. Shit, 168 hours? That’s nothing.)

She shifts her head and looks at him for a long time, face unreadable. Then, she sags into him, turning her gaze back onto the beach on his shitty tv. “Okay.”

⸸

Before crashing from morning to early evening, he leaves the dress in a box on her bed for her, with a card of instructions and the best wig he could find on such short notice. He Fed-Exed Finn’s suit to his mother’s basement. Of course Bellamy should’ve known that whether she liked what he picked for her or not, she was going to use what he gave her and run with it, absolutely wreck him in the process. 

His heart actually stops for a few long seconds when he first spots her, from where he’s talking to their preparator Monty in the back over by the spooky ghost sheet covered paintings. She looks gorgeous in the body-fitted gown he's slaved over for the past week. The ruby color of the fabric makes her skin look a luminous kind of pale, black lace wrapping around the upper part of the tight bodice. A shiny heart-shaped royal blue diamond he spent way too much money on hangs from her neck, the red tendrils from the curly wig on her head framing her face perfectly. If she doesn’t win, Bellamy will personally crash the announcement ceremony. 

He notices Finn too of course, if only because he’s plastered to her side, hand on the small of her back. Finn’s so stupid, with his hair slicked back greasily and his oversized tuxedo, leaning into the role of aristocratic asshole Caledon Hockley a little bit too well. God, Bellamy wishes Finn would spill his drink on him accidentally or something. Give him an excuse to get into a fist fight.

Bellamy tries not to look at them anymore after. He busies himself talking to the coworkers he likes, entertains the twenty-minute somehow already drunk rant Miller — building and grounds staff — gives him on his crush on Bryan from HR while dressed as Shakespeare, has their security officer Emori tempt him into doing a round of stomach-acid inducing shots with the help of her flask, and even dances with one of the other educators Maya for a little while. 

It’s when he’s finally getting a drink by the snack table that Clarke corners him, cutting an hour and a half of torture short. He leads her off to the side, recognizing the look on her face. They linger behind one of the huge marble sculptures on the side of the hall, his chin on thigh height with The Graces. The irony does not escape him. Goddesses of vengeance and retribution who punish men for their heinous crimes, combined with that murderous glint in his best friend’s eyes? Seems about right. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, ‘cause I’ve never seen the movie, but doesn’t this—” Clarke motions down at herself, the gown he measured perfectly to her curves and she’s now inviting him a close-up off. Yet, his eyes are drawn to the little beauty mark just above her pink lips. She’s standing way too close, a gruff sound to her usual tone. “—end up with Jack? The _other_ guy?”

Bellamy swallows tightly, trying to keep a straight face. It’s not like he couldn’t have seen this coming. Of course she would call him out on it, he _wanted_ her to. He’s the one wearing suspenders and the tan pants, the one who bothered to finally shave his depression beard and figured just going with the curls would be an artistic leniency he could risk. It’s obvious who he is, especially now, standing in front of her. It’s _glaringly_ obvious he outdid Finn, her actual boyfriend. He deserves to be on the other end of this very judgemental, expectant look she’s giving him. “You’ve never seen Titanic?”

“Okay,” she starts with a mirthless laugh. “Let’s hone in on that, yes, not the massive hint you think my one true love is you, not my _boyfriend,_ Finn.” She crosses her arms over her chest, shaking her head lightly, blue eyes narrowed. “Who, by the way, looks ridiculous. I know your sewing skills are better than that.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Clarke,” he grits, mirroring her pose. Bellamy’s head spins. He can’t deny her. He also can’t really agree with her, because he’s panicking, but he knows he’s got to own up to it. He’s pretty sure she knows anyway, he should just get the humiliation of being rejected over with while Emori hasn’t emptied her flask yet. “Plan B was Joey and Pacey, and me showing up as Dawson. Does that make it clear enough for you?”

Her nostrils flare, her neck starting to turn a splotchy red under the strobe lights shuttering in from behind and peaking in between the gaps of the statue. She looks at the ceiling, then off to the left with her jaw clenching before returning to glare up at him. “Are you seriously so dramatic that you would orchestrate all of this just to tell me you like me?”

“Not like,” he corrects, seething. He knows he doesn’t really have a reason to be mad. That it’s just the dark shadow of her imminent ‘ _we’re better as friends'_ and ‘ _I_ _don’t see you like that_ ’ looming over him like a stormcloud, and the stress of finally coming clean about his feelings after years because he has nothing more to lose, the vulnerability that comes with it. And maybe he is mad, too. Mad at himself that he can’t be what she wants. Grits, “Not fucking _like_ , Clarke.”

Her shoulders sag, arms falling down her sides. He doesn’t want to look at her, but he can’t look away either — his heart slamming against his ribcage like it’s trying to leap out of it. She opens her mouth, but it’s another second of her eyes raking his face before she actually says, “Couldn’t you just have told me?”

“You don’t think I’ve tried that before?” He snaps, but even he hears the embarrassing break in his voice near the end. He never saw loving her as a bad thing, that it was just another way of appreciating her, not worth risking their friendship over. That he would be okay if she never reciprocated those feelings. Now, standing here in front of her it just hurts. “You’re never single long enough for me to even start the conversation—”

Bellamy’s not — this is _not_ his first time. He’s been through Niylah (3 months) and then Lexa (3 years) with her, and it sucked, but at least Clarked looked happy with them for the most part. At least he could tell himself that over and over, find comfort in it late at night when he found himself wondering why he couldn’t just tell her. It’s not that she looks miserable with Finn, but she’s different when she’s with him. Flat, and distant, and placating — never even bothers to argue with him. Hell, she spends more time at Bellamy’s place than at his. She can do so much better. Even if it’s not Bellamy. 

There’s a flash of hurt-fueled fury across her face as she scoffs. “Oh, so now I’m a slut?”

“What?” He bites back, head reeling back at the implication. She always fucking does this. “Of course not. Don’t do that, don’t put words into my mouth—”

“Shut up,” she flashes, tendon in her neck pulled tight from the way she’s straining to get up in his face. Her forehead creased, the now red light catching on the fake diamond gleaming in the hollow at the base of her throat. ”Stop pretending I’m some dictator—”

Bellamy scoffs, nostrils flaring. “You are.”  
  


Her expression hardens, and he can physically see her shutting off her emotions by the way her eyes turn cold. Even her tone has a chill to it. “Well, someone has to put words in your mouth because you’re apparently mute—”

She’s fucking insane. Does she see what’s happening right now? Does she not understand how difficult this has been for him, how difficult it is still, even now? It’s not like he never wanted to tell her. The timing was just always off. “What did you expect for me to do—”

“To be honest with me!” She bursts out, voice strained, throwing up her arms. Clarke stares up at him, brow pinched and chest heaving, pausing for a few moments. Quieter this time, more resigned, “We’re _always_ honest with each other.”

It pisses him off she’s being so unfair, so unreasonable. She can’t force him to just tell her every little silly thought he has, no consequences. He can’t just very well tell her ‘hey, you’re making me so fucking hard it’s unbearable’ every time she wears a lowcut top in his near vicinity. He can’t tell her he dreamt of her all night when she asks him how he slept, and he _definitely_ can’t tell her he loves her so fucking much it hurts whenever they’re on the couch, Clarke practically crawling onto his lap, pressing her cold nose against his throat. It pisses him off beyond control, that she would demand something like that from him, makes it seem so easy and clinical. Maybe it is for her, because she doesn’t know how it feels. “Withholding the truth isn’t lying. I know Lexa gave you a trauma—”

Her nail digs into his chest, poking him angrily. “Don’t bring her up to try and deflect the attention off the fact you _kept_ this from me—”

God forbid he _keeps_ something from her. “I kept it from you because I was afraid you’d react like this,” he throws back, frustrated. They take a moment, just glaring at each other, and it’s now he notices. The way her chest heaves up and down erratically, the way she’s clamping her teeth together in that way she only does whenever someone catches her off guard in an argument, the flare of her pupils. For the first time, it starts to dawn on him that there’s a real possibility she’s actually affected. She’s not mad he’s into her, she’s mad he didn’t _tell_ her before. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he keeps pushing on, despite his nervosity, “I was afraid I would lose you.”

She takes a step closer to him, eyes narrowed into sliths, chest almost touching his. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

When he catches her blue eyes dip down to his mouth, even for just a second, he knows for sure. He’s not backing down now, the only sound he can make out through the reckless pounding of his own blood is their hard breathing. Bellamy huffs, mirthless, challenging, “And you want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

She surges up, small hands on his face, kissing him, hard press of her mouth on his. Her tongue licks into him immediately, knocking him back into the statue. His hands move over her sides, coming up to palm her breasts and squeeze them. She whimpers into his mouth, pushing closer until his knee comes up to give her something to press her heat against. One of his hands comes up to cup her chin, holding her in place as the kiss turns even filthier, sloppier, wet.

Clarke’s fingers wrap around his suspenders, pushing herself even closer to grind her warm centre against his leg in tandem with their insistent tongues. The hand on her chin moves up to weave into her hair, accidentally shifting her wig out of place. It falls to the ground not much later, and he grunts against her lips as she sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, tugging softly. 

Once she starts fumbling with his belt, he finds some of his consciousness returning. They’re at work, he remembers. In public. 

“Right here?” Bellamy asks, rough, hands covering hers to keep them still as he lowers his eyes to hers, blown pupils probably matching the glassy looks in his. Perks of being in a museum is there are a lot of dark alcoves, abandoned hallways they can duck into. The offices in the back are probably empty too. If they’re really desperate they could break into the gift shop, or hold up the line at the bathrooms. Right now they’re barely hidden from view, darkness only doing so much to cover up to solid shadows of their bodies behind the statues. Anyone strays just a little bit too far from the snack table, and they’re caught.

But apparently she likes the thought of that. She pulls on the bottom of his shirt until she can writhe her hand under the material, trailing her hand up his warm abs while her other fingers curl into his hair, pulling him back towards her already kiss-bitten lips. Bellamy’s free hand moves to the back of her thigh, guiding her hips against him until she’s making squeaky sounds into his mouth that drive him absolutely crazy, and together they get lost in it again for another reckless moment. 

“Right here,” she echoes, once she has to come up for air, and when she continues to unbuckle his belt his hands fall away to the side. “Now.”

He grunts, flipping them around as he starts pulling up the hem of her gown. It’s tight, and there’s a little rip when he wrestles his hand under there, but he can’t be bothered to give a fuck (either about the dress or his eighty hours of free labor on it) when his fingers dip under the thin fabric of her underwear and into her slick folds. 

“God,” she gasps against his jaw, breath hot as her fingers clasp around his shoulders, whole body growing tense. His middle finger circles the little bud of nerves at the top of her slit and her teeth sink into her bottom lip as her eyes flicker up to meet his darkened gaze. As soon as he teases her entrance, collecting the arousal pooling there before going back to rub at her clit, her mouth drops open in a silent choke. She’s dripping, already way too keyed up, two of his fingers sliding in easily. 

Bellamy nips at her ear, can’t keep the awe out of his voice as he watches her. Hips desperately bucking up against him, trying to fuck her on his hand. His beautiful, sexy best friend. “You like this, don’t you?” Her chest heaves, her cheeks are flushed, a dark hungry look in her eyes. She doesn’t have to say it out loud for him to know it’s true. His uptight, always serious, proper Clarke, a kinky little exhibitionist. Who would’ve thought. “Thinking about Finn looking for you, finding us here, my hand down your—”

Clarke cuts him off with a loud throaty moan as he changes the angle slightly, hand tightening in his hair. Suddenly he’s glad someone let their social media manager Jasper pick out their playlist, the heavy thump of the bass of some popular EDM song that’s always playing on the radio drowning out the sound. Her fingers drop down to snake in between them and wrap around his wrist, keeping him in place. 

“I need you,” she croaks out, desperate eyes boring into his, grip so tight she might be leaving marks. He was already in before, but now he’s going absolutely crazy with want, hardness straining painfully against his zipper. 

“I got you,” Bellamy cooes, starting to slowly pull his fingers from her. She’s already popping open the button on his pants, dipping inside his boxers to wrap her small hand around his hard shaft. A shiny smear of her juices covers the statue as he seeks it out right by her head to support his weight. It feels so good he almost comes right there on the spot. 

Terror strikes him as he ducks his head down against her shoulder, temporarily losing his train of thought as he watches her stroke him in her fist a few times. He swallows hard, trying to collect his bearings. “Shit, I don’t—” He begins, pained. 

“‘S okay,” Clarke tells him, so confidently he doesn’t even question it, voice even huskier than normal. “I’ve never fucked him without a condom.”

A flare of anger rises within him at the mention of her boyfriend, but he pushes it away. She’s not fucking Finn right now, after all, and they all know he’s readily available just a few dozen feet away from them. She _wants_ to be fucking Bellamy. If this was anyone else he wouldn’t, but this is Clarke, and he trusts her, and he frankly doesn’t give a shit either way. He’s never been this desperate to be inside of anyone before. 

“I thought I was imagining it every time you looked at me like that,” Clarke confesses, breathy, guiding him to her centre as she holds his gaze. She must’ve seen the flash of possessiveness across his face, and apparently has noticed it before. It’s long replaced by now, with something that’s a whole lot more reverent. She’s so hot like this, taking what she wants. “I thought you were trying to big brother me, trying to replace Oc—”

“Let’s not talk about my sister right now.” He lets out a strangulated groans, finally sliding into her tight heat. She takes a second to breathe through it, and he keeps still, letting her adjust. He peppers kisses all over her jawline, the corner of her mouth. Once he reaches her cheek, she turns her head to catch him with her lips instead. She rocks up against him, kissing him, deep and filthy. “I was so fucking jealous, Clarke,” he pants, nostrils flaring as he leans his forehad against hers. “Thinking of him. His hands on you—”

“Oh fuck,” she moans, on the first thrust, clawing at his shoulders. He adjusts the angle, wrapping his fingers around the back of her knee and pushing it up slightly, pinning it in place with his hip. Clarke gasps into his shoulder, teeth digging into his flesh through his shirt, letting him know she likes it. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she babbles on thickly, eyes squeezed shut tightly from pleasure. “I would touch myself every night after he left, thinking of you.”

Jesus, Finn’s even worse than he thought. He couldn’t even make her come? What an useless piece of shit. Bellamy readily concludes, “He’s not right for you.” _He’s not me_ , he wants to add, but he’s a little lost when her cunt clenches involuntarily around him. 

“God, he’s so fucking boring,” she agrees, heatedly, and then they’re stupidly laughing into each other’s mouths. He keeps kissing her through it, even though they’re both still smiling too hard to even call it that. Bellamy pulls back enough to catch her eye, gleaming with amusement. “If I have to listen to one more of his tangents on how saving the environment is an individual responsibility—”

He drives into her harder, kissing her jaw. His hair is sticking to his forehead from sweat, his grip tight on her hips. “Sure, it’s us, not all the corporations running our earth dry of it’s resources.”

“Exactly,” Clarke grants, followed by a long moan that she tries to stifle by biting down on her lip, throwing her head back against the statue. Her nails dig in the back of his neck, just as his cock drags over a particularly sensitive spot. As unfazed as she can sound considering their current situation, she presses, “Titanic, _really,_ Bell?”

His licks his lips, tasting those disgusting fruity alcopops she always loves so much. Grunting, he grits out, “You know Jaha’s into historic figures.”

Bellamy fastens his pace, knowing they’re bound to run out of time sooner rather than later. She desperately tugs the dress up even further, rubbing at her clit. “So you—oh, yeah there, right there—you _were_ trying to get me to win?”

He nips at her jaw meanly. “Of course I was. Just not with him.”

The speaker system squeaks in the distance, someone’s voice croaking through it for a while, and he doesn’t even really pay attention until — “... Finally, Best Couple!”

He finds Clarke’s eyes on his, slightly alarmed even through a haze of lust, and his hand comes up to cover her mouth. He doesn’t stop fucking up into her as he demands, “You’re going to stay quiet.”

She just lets out a soft squeak against his fingers, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of pink. His fingers overtake hers in between them, pinching at the bud just to get her to make that sound again. To her credit, her whole body tenses up, her breaths coming in quick through her nose, but she doesn’t let out a peep. 

“Rose and Jack!” A deafening silence covers the hall after the initial whoops and applause fade, until their director scrapes his throat. “Does anyone know where Clarke and Bellamy are?”

Bellamy sucks on her pulse point shortly, hoping it’ll bruise before lifting his mouth to her ear. “You can only come if you stay quiet for me, okay?”

She nods, vehemently, probably too close to care at this point, nipping at his finger petulantly before he pulls his hand away. He pounds into her harder, as payback. She feels so good, so hot, so tight. It’s a miracle he’s even still going.

“Bellamy and Clarke?” Jaha repeats in the mic, tapping it a few times to check if it’s on. “Anyone?”

Finally, after some more hushed commotion, the music turns back on, and they figure they’re in the clear for now.

“Oh fuck,” Clarke mutters, frantic, as soon as his thumb starts rubbing harder, messy circles over her clit, throwing her head back against the marble. Her forehead is damp, her eyes glassy, a red-purple mark starting to bloom on her neck. “Oh, fuck, fuck.”

Since she’s breaking her promise and he’s too close to his own release to entertain the thought of punishing her for it, he covers her lips with his. He sucks her bottom lip into his mouth before using the gap to slide his tongue back into her hot mouth. Bellamy swallows a moan as she suddenly arches into him, the arm banding tightly around his shoulders pulling him closer. She stops kissing him back, instead just gasping into him, falling apart right there. It’s the fluttering of her cunt that unravels the last of his own restraint as well, only managing to pump into her once more. The pressure low in his back grows too tight and then snaps, spilling deep inside of her. 

Her lips find his again, this time softer, slower, taking their time. His hands slide into the sides of her slicked back bun, tugging her closer. Eventually he pulls away, slipping his softening cock from her folds. He doesn’t have anything to clean himself up with, so he just tucks himself back into his pants as Clarke fixes her underwear and dress. 

Bellamy picks her wig up from the floor, handing it to her, still breathing hard. “You know, in a roundabout way, Jack dies because of Rose.”

“It’s simple physics.” Clarke rolls her eyes, reaching inside her dress to fix her breast more comfortably into her bra. His eyes dip down to her cleavage, and he’s feeling immense regrets at not getting his mouth on them. He hopes there’s more time for that later. “The drawer would not have been able to stay buoyant enough to keep both of their weights above the water without immersing them in it, which would’ve effectively killed them both waiting those three hours for the rescue boats to arrive.”

“You _have_ seen Titanic,” Bellamy accuses her. “You were just playing stupid?”

She looks unimpressed. “What? Like you’ve been doing for God knows how long?”

Kissing her again, he grunts against her mouth, “Shut up.”

Clarke runs her thumb over his bottom lip, brushing her knuckles along his jaw before dropping her hand down to his shoulder, keeping her eyes fixed there. “I hoped that it wasn’t just some vindictive alpha male thing, sticking it to Finn.” She swallows visibly, and he knows this part is even harder for her. She doesn’t like talking about her feelings, ever. “I _hoped_ it was because _you_ wanted to be the other half of my Couple’s Costume instead.” She takes a deep breath, her thumb dipping under the suspender absently, rubbing over his collarbone. “But I spent so long convincing myself — I needed to hear you say it.”

Her bright blue eyes finally move back up to meet his, and even if he sees the discomfort at her own vulnerability there, he also finds so much more hidden beneath the surface. So much history, so much respect, so much longing. Something that makes him want to tell her. 

“It’s not like, Clarke,” he echoes his words from before, just a little bit wounded. It seems so much more important all of a sudden, that she knows.

Her fingers tighten around the wig still in her hand, briefly, and then she suddenly presses up on her tiptoes to peck his mouth for a long moment. It’s another second before she talks, his lips still burning from the dryest, simplest kiss they’ve shared so far. “It’s not like for me either,” she affirms. 

“Good,” Bellamy says, kissing her again just because he can’t take not kissing her anymore. This one is deeper, dirtier. They’re both panting when he pulls back. She chases his mouth, but he just moves further back, a pleased smirk breaking across his features. “Your boyfriend is probably waiting for you.”

“That’s going to be an awkward conversation.“ Clarke sighs, squirming a little uncomfortably as she steps away from the statue, pulling on the fabric of the gown around her hips.

His smirk grows darker. “No bathroom breaks.”

She looks up at him questioningly, realisation slowly forming in her eyes when she finally manages to make sense of his words. He wants her to face Finn while he’s dripping from in between her thighs. She’s his now. 

“I want you to look him in the eye knowing I’m still inside of you.” Her cheeks flush, lips parting but she doesn’t say anything, maybe afraid her own voice would betray her. He presses closer, fixing her necklace. The smell of sex still hangs in the air. “Congrats on winning the contest by the way.”

“What are you? A fucking caveman?” She snaps, but most of the heat is lost by the slight tremble in her voice near the end. She’s totally turned on by the thought. 

Bellamy snorts. “Don’t you have to go bully Josie?”

“We’re going home, and I’m riding your face,” she informs him, tossing the wig aside. “I’ll just send him a text from the Uber.”

Bellamy thinks it over.

Her eyebrows shoot up, sending him an incredulous look. “Seriously?”

“What?” He bites back, unconcerned. She can ride his face all night, every night if she wants to. Another opportunity for him to gloat in Finn’s face like this won’t arise again. Hopefully because he’s fucking off forever. “I want him to know you’re mine.”

“I _am_ yours.” Clarke folds her hands over his chest, rubbing slightly, and he can’t ignore the way his stomach flips at the admission. “If it bothers you so much, I can let it slip we had unprotected sex when he comes to pick up his stuff.”

Bellamy blinks at her, swallowing hard. “I know you’re kidding, but—”

“Bellamy,” she groans, stepping back into his space. She palms his cock over his pants. “If you don’t come with me right now, I’ll just leave you here and make myself busy with my vibrator.”

“I’m not sure,” he teases, dry. “I don’t usually put out on the first date.”

Clarke gives him an unimpressed look. “You just have to lay there and take it.”

He beams at her, letting her tug him down towards the employee back-entrance. “My favorite Halloween activity.”

⸸


End file.
